Age Of Fable Or Beauties Of Mythology
Author: Bulfinch, Thomas

Chapter XIV: Minerva - Niobe.


Minerva, the goddess of wisdom, was the daughter of Jupiter. She was
said to have leaped forth from his brain, mature, and in complete armor. She
presided over the useful and ornamental arts, both those of men, - such as
agriculture and navigation - and those of women, - spinning, weaving, and
needle-work. She was also a warlike divinity; but it was defensive war only
that she patronized, and she had no sympathy with Mars's savage love of
violence and bloodshed. Athens was her chosen seat, her own city, awarded to
her as the prize of a contest with Neptune, who also aspired to it. The tale
ran that in the reign of Cecrops, the first king of Athens, the two deities
contended for the possession of the city. The gods decreed that it should be
awarded to that one who produced the gift most useful to mortals. Neptune
gave the horse; Minerva produced the olive. The gods gave judgment that the
olive was the more useful of the two, and awarded the city to the goddess; and
it was named after her, Athens, her name in Greek being Athene.

There was another contest, in which a mortal dared to come in competition
with Minerva. That mortal was Arachne, a maiden who had attained such skill
in the arts of weaving and embroidery that the Nymphs themselves would leave
their groves and fountains to come and gaze upon her work. It was not only
beautiful when it was done, but beautiful also in the doing. To watch her, as
she took the wool in its rude state and formed it into rolls, or separated it
with her fingers and carded it till it looked as light and soft as a cloud, or
twirled the spindle with skilful touch, or wove the web, or, after it was
woven, adorned it with her needle, one would have said that Minerva herself
had taught her. But this she denied, and could not bear to be thought a pupil
even of a goddess. "Let Minerva try her skill with mine," said she; "if
beaten, I will pay the penalty." Minerva heard this and was displeased. She
assumed the form of an old woman, and went and gave Arachne some friendly
advice. "I have had much experience," said she, "and I hope you will not
despise my counsel. Challenge your fellow-mortals as you will, but do not
compete with a goddess. On the contrary, I advise you to ask her forgiveness
for what you have said, and as she is merciful, perhaps she will pardon you."
Arachne stopped her spinning, and looked at the old dame with anger in her
countenance. "Keep your counsel," said she, "for your daughters or
hand-maids; for my part, I know what I say, and I stand to it. I am not
afraid of the goddess; let her try her skill, if she dare venture." "She
comes," said Minerva; and dropping her disguise, stood confessed. The Nymphs
bent low in homage, and all the bystanders paid reverence. Arachne alone was
unterrified. She blushed, indeed; a sudden color dyed her cheek, and then she
grew pale. But she stood to her resolve, and with a foolish conceit of her
own skill rushed on her fate. Minerva forbore no longer, nor interposed any
further advice. They proceed to the contest. Each takes her station and
attaches the web to the beam. Then the slender shuttle is passed in and out
among the threads. The reed with its fine teeth strikes up the woof into its
place and compacts the web. Both work with speed; their skilful hands move
rapidly, and the excitement of the contest makes the labor light. Wool of
Tyrian dye is contrasted with that of other colors, shaded off into one
another so adroitly that the joining deceives the eye. Like the bow, whose
long arch tinges the heavens, formed by sunbeams reflected from the shower, ^*
in which, where the colors meet they seem as one, but at a little distance
from the point of contact are wholly different.

[Footnote *: This correct description of the rainbow is literally translated
from Ovid.]

Minerva wrought on her web the scene of her contest with Neptune. Twelve
of the heavenly powers are represented, Jupiter, with august gravity, sitting
in the midst. Neptune, the ruler of the sea, holds his trident, and appears
to have just smitten the earth, from which a horse has leaped forth. Minerva
depicted herself with helmed head, her Aegis covering her breast. Such was the
central circle; and in the four corners were represented incidents
illustrating the displeasure of the gods at such presumptuous mortals as had
dared to contend with them. These were meant as warnings to her rival to give
up the contest before it was too late.

Arachne filled her web with subjects designedly chosen to exhibit the
failings and errors of the gods. One scene represented Leda caressing the
swan, under which form Jupiter had disguised himself; and another, Danae, in
the brazen tower in which her father had imprisoned her, but where the god
effected his entrance in the form of a golden shower. Still another depicted
Europa deceived by Jupiter under the disguise of a bull. Encouraged by the
tameness of the animal, Europa ventured to mount his back, whereupon Jupiter
advanced into the sea, and swam with her to Crete. You would have thought it
was a real bull, so naturally was it wrought, and so natural the water in
which it swam. She seemed to look with longing eyes back upon the shore she
was leaving, and to call to her companions for help. She appeared to shudder
with terror at the sight of the heaving waves, and to draw back her feet from
the water.

Arachne filled her canvas with similar subjects, wonderfully well done,
but strongly marking her presumption and impiety. Minerva could not forbear
to admire, yet felt indignant at the insult. She struck the web with her
shuttle, and rent it in pieces; she then touched the forehead of Arachne, and
made her feel her guilt and shame. She could not endure it, and went and
hanged herself Minerva pitied her as she saw her suspended by a rope. "Live,"
she said, "guilty woman - and that you may preserve the memory of this lesson
continue to hang, both you and your descendants, to all future times." She
sprinkled her with the juices of aconite, and immediately her hair came off,
and her nose and ears likewise. Her form shrank up, and her head grew smaller
yet; her fingers cleaved to her side, and served for legs. All the rest of her
is body, out of which she spins her thread, often hanging suspended by it, in
the same attitude as when Minerva touched her and transformed her into a

Spenser tells the story of Arachne in his Muiopotmos, adhering very
closely to his master Ovid, but improving upon him in the conclusion of the
story. The two stanzas which follow tell what was done after the goddess had
depicted her creation of the olive tree: -

"Amongst these leaves she made a Butterfly,
With excellent device and wondrous slight,
Fluttering among the olives wantonly,
That seemed to live, so like it was in sight;
The velvet nap which on his wings doth lie,
The silken down with which his back is dight,
His broad outstretched horns, his hairy thighs,
His glorious colors, and his glistening eyes." ^*

[Footnote *: Sir James Mackintosh says of this, "Do you think that even a
Chinese could paint the gay colors of a butterfly with more minute exactness
than the following lines - 'The velvet nap, &c.'?" Life. - Vol. II. 246]

"Which when Arachne saw, as overlaid
And mastered with workmanship so rare,
She stood astonied long, ne aught gainsaid;
And with fast-fixed eyes on her did stare,
And by her silence, sign of one dismayed,
The victory did yield her as her share:
Yet did she inly fret and felly burn,
And all her blood to poisonous rancor turn."

And so the metamorphosis is caused by Arachne's own mortification and
vexation, and not by any direct act of the goddess.

The following specimen of old-fashioned gallantry is by Garrick: -

Upon a Lady's Embroidery.

"Arachne once, as poets tell,
A goddess at her art defied,
And soon the daring mortal fell
The hapless victim of her pride.

O, then beware Arachne's fate;
Be prudent, Chloe, and submit,
For you'll most surely meet her hate,
Who rival both her art and wit."

Tennyson, in his Palace of Art, describing the works of art with which
the palace was adorned, thus alludes to Europa: -

" - sweet Europa's mantle blew unclasped
From off her shoulder, backward borne,
From one hand drooped a crocus, one hand grasped
The mild bull's golden horn."

In his Princess there is this allusion to Danae: -

"Now lies the earth all Danae to the stars,
And all thy heart lies open unto me."


The fate of Arachne was noised abroad through all the country, and served
as a warning to all presumptuous mortals not to compare themselves with the
divinities. But one, and she a matron too, failed to learn the lesson of
humility. It was Niobe, the queen of Thebes. She had indeed much to be proud
of; but it was not her husband's fame, nor her own beauty, nor their great
descent, nor the power of their kingdom that elated her. It was her children;
and truly the happiest of mothers would Niobe have been, if only she had not
claimed to be so. It was on occasion of the annual celebration in honor of
Latona and her offspring, Apollo and Diana, - when the people of Thebes were
assembled, their brows crowned with laurel, bearing frankincense to the altars
and paying their vows, - that Niobe appeared among the crowd. Her attire was
splendid with gold and gems, and her aspect beautiful as the face of an angry
woman can be. She stood and surveyed the people with haughty looks. "What
folly," said she, "is this! - to prefer beings whom you never saw to those who
stand before your eyes! Why should Latona be honored with worship, and none
be paid to me? My father was Tantalus, who was received as a guest at the
table of the gods; my mother was a goddess. My husband built and rules this
city, Thebes, and Phrygia is my paternal inheritance. Wherever I turn my eyes
I survey the elements of my power; nor is my form and presence unworthy of a
goddess. To all this let me add, I have seven sons and seven daughters, and
look for sons-in-law and daughters-in-law of pretensions worthy of my
alliance. Have I not cause for pride? Will you prefer to me this Latona, the
Titan's daughter, with her two children? I have seven times as many.
Fortunate indeed am I, and fortunate I shall remain! Will any one deny this?
My abundance is my security. I feel myself too strong for Fortune to subdue.
She may take from me much; I shall still have much left. Were I to lose some
of my children, I should hardly be left as poor as Latona with her two only.
Away with you from these solemnities, - put off the laurel from your brows, -
have done with this worship!" The people obeyed, and left the sacred services

The goddess was indignant. On the Cynthian mountain top, where she
dwelt, she thus addressed her son and daughter: "My children, I who have been
so proud of you both, and have been used to hold myself second to none of the
goddesses except Juno alone, begin now to doubt whether I am indeed a goddess.
I shall be deprived of my worship altogether unless you protect me." She was
proceeding in this strain, but Apollo interrupted her. "Say no more," said
he; "speech only delays punishment." So said Diana also. Darting through the
air, veiled in clouds, they alighted on the towers of the city. Spread out
before the gates was a broad plain, where the youth of the city pursued their
warlike sports. The sons of Niobe were there with the rest, - some mounted on
spirited horses richly caparisoned, some driving gay chariots. Ismenos, the
first-born, as he guided his foaming steeds, struck with an arrow from above,
cried out, "Ah me!" - dropped the reins and fell lifeless. Another, hearing
the sound of the bow, - like a boatman who sees the storm gathering and makes
all sail for the port, - gave the rein to his horses and attempted to escape.
The inevitable arrow overtook him as he fled. Two others, younger boys, just
from their tasks, had gone to the playground to have a game of wrestling. As
they stood breast to breast, one arrow pierced them both. They uttered a cry
together, together cast a parting look around them, and together breathed
their last. Alphenor, an elder brother, seeing them fall hastened to the spot
to render assistance, and fell stricken in the act of brotherly duty. One
only was left, Ilioneus. He raised his arms to heaven to try whether prayer
might not avail. "Spare me, ye gods!" he cried, addressing all, in his
ignorance that all needed not his intercessions; and Apollo would have spared
him, but the arrow had already left the string, and it was too late.

The terror of the people and grief of the attendants soon made Niobe
acquainted with what had taken place. She could hardly think it possible; she
was indignant that the gods had dared and amazed that they had been able to do
it. Her husband, Amphion, overwhelmed with the blow, destroyed himself.
Alas! how different was this Niobe from her who had so lately driven away the
people from the sacred rites, and held her stately course through the city,
the envy of her friends, now the pity even of her foes! She knelt over the
lifeless bodies, and kissed, now one, now another of her dead sons. Raising
her pallid arms to heaven, "Cruel Latona," said she, "feed full your rage with
my anguish! Satiate your hard heart, while I follow to the grave my seven
sons. Yet where is your triumph? Bereaved as I am, I am still richer than
you, my conqueror." Scarce had she spoken, when the bow sounded and struck
terror into all hearts except Niobe's alone. She was brave from excess of
grief. The sisters stood in garments of mourning over the biers of their dead
brothers. One fell, struck by an arrow, and died on the corpse she was
bewailing. Another, attempting to console her mother, suddenly ceased to
speak, and sank lifeless to the earth. A third tried to escape by flight, a
fourth by concealment, another stood trembling, uncertain what course to take.
Six were now dead, and only one remained, whom the mother held clasped in her
arms, and covered as it were with her whole body. "Spare me one, and that the
youngest! O, spare me one of so many!" she cried; and while she spoke, that
one fell dead. Desolate she sat, among sons, daughters, husband, all dead,
and seemed torpid with grief. The breeze moved not her hair, no color was on
her cheek, her eyes glared fixed and immovable, there was no sign of life
about her. Her very tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth, and her veins
ceased to convey the tide of life. Her neck bent not, her arms made no
gesture, her foot no step. She was changed to stone, within and without. Yet
tears continued to flow; and, borne on a whirlwind to her native mountain, she
still remains, a mass of rock, from which a trickling stream flows, the
tribute of her never-ending grief.

The story of Niobe has furnished Byron with a fine illustration of the
fallen condition of modern Rome: -

"The Niobe of nations! there she stands,
Childless and crownless in her voiceless woe;
An empty urn within her withered hands,
Whose holy dust was scattered long ago;
The Scipios' tomb contains no ashes now:
The very sepulchres lie tenantless
Of their heroic dwellers; dost thou flow,
Old Tiber! through a marble wilderness?
Rise with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress.

Childe Harold, IV. 79.

Our illustration of this story is a copy of a celebrated statue in the
imperial gallery of Florence. It is the principal figure of a group supposed
to have been originally arranged in the pediment of a temple. The figure of
the mother clasped by the arm of her terrified child, is one of the most
admired of the ancient statues. It ranks with the Laocoon and the Apollo
among the masterpieces of art. The following is a translation of a Greek
epigram supposed to relate to this statue: -

"To stone the gods have changed her, but in vain;
The sculptor's art has made her breathe again."

Tragic as is the story of Niobe we cannot forbear to smile at the use
Moore has made of it in Rhymes on the Road: -

"'Twas in his carriage the sublime
Sir Richard Blackmore used to rhyme,
And, if the wits don't do him wrong,
'Twixt death and epics passed his time,
Scribbling and killing all day long;
Like Phoebus in his car at ease,
Now warbling forth a lofty song,
Now murdering the young Niobes."

Sir Richard Blackmore was a physician, and at the same time a very
prolific and very tasteless post, whose works are now forgotten, unless when
recalled by some wit like Moore for the sake of a joke.